Bureau 13: Damned Nation, page 12
"Yes, we should,” Harvin muttered in consternation. “But to which one of them?"
Unable to answer that conundrum, Evan replied by shutting the massive bronze door and locking it tight with a muffled boom.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Hold onto your darn water, I'm coming!” the caretaker snorted irritably. Carrying a lantern, Old Ed swung open the front door of the Executive Mansion and staggered backwards at the sight of a brass Napoleon cannon, the huge muzzle pointing directly at his heart.
"Alarm! The rebs are here!” Old Ed cried, rushing forward to shove the door closed. “Call the guards!"
"Oh stop that, ya fool,” Sgt. Montgomery chided, gently pushing the elderly man aside. “Now be a good fellow and get us a rug or something to lay under this rolling blunderbuss so we don't scratch the floor."
"The cannon is coming inside?” Old Ed gasped, clutching a fistful of his shirt as if having a heart attack. “No! I won't allow it! Why the very idea ... !"
"Listen, friend, we need this in case some thing,” the sergeant said stressing the last word, “tries to get inside. Understand?"
His face brightening as comprehension dawned, Old Ed started fiendishly grinning. “Do you have it loaded with canister?” he asked, craning his neck for a better look down the muzzle. “That's much better than cannonballs for killing folk."
If only we were fighting people. “She's loaded with a mixture of buckshot, grapeshot, silver spoons, and rusty nails,” the sergeant grunted, pushing the wizened obstruction away again.
"Lord Almighty! That mixture should send a man to Hell faster than passing water on the pope!"
"That was the idea, Ben Franklin,” Sgt. Montgomery said, unlocking the second door and swinging it aside. “All right, boys, get moving!"
"One-two-three-heave!” a corporal sang out.
Groaning from the effort, the newly-renamed Dog Platoon hoisted the massive cannon off the two-wheel carriage and awkwardly carried the Napoleon into the foyer.
"I've had fun before,” one of the privates whispered through his teeth, “and this ain't it."
"Welcome to the Mansion,” Old Ed said, throwing an India carpet on the floor. “Mind the furniture! We just dusted."
Biting back a sarcastic comment, the corporal merely glanced at Sgt. Montgomery, who shrugged in resignation. Weather and civilians, both were pains in the arse of the military, and there was nothing a soldier could do about either.
Grunting and groaning, the struggling Dog soldiers placed the piece of field artillery on the rug as if it were made of glass. Wiping off their hands, the Dogs shuffled back outside to disassemble the wheeled carriage, and set that also on the carpet. Then the soldiers reassembled the weapon under the stern observation of Sgt. Montgomery.
"Having fun now?” the sergeant asked pleasantly.
The other Dogs glowered at the offending wiseacre and continued the work.
Once they were finished, the Dogs trundled outside to bring in kegs of powder, and the tools of their trade: tin-foil canisters of grapeshot, cannonballs, chain-shot, rolls of fuse, lanyards, water buckets, ramrods, and a lot of Lucifer matches. Soon enough, the India rug was piled high with deadly ordinance, making it resemble a military Stonehenge.
When the deadly Napoleon was ready for combat, the soldiers formed a ragged line to the porch and began transferring in dozens of sandbags. Lending a hand, Sgt. Montgomery helped construct a crude redoubt around the cannon.
"That'll do, boys,” Sgt. Montgomery said at last, walking around the emplacement. “Yes, by jingo, that will do nicely."
With the shiny brass muzzle peeking over the sandbag wall, the Napoleon could easily be maneuvered to swing about to fire in any direction, through any window, or down either hallway. Old Ed seemed less than thrilled, but the Dogs approved. Massive overkill was only common sense in the Union Army.
Just then, Private Johnstone arrived, dragging a heavy duffel, and hauled out several tinfoil canisters marked with bright red lines, the paint still damp on a few of them.
"Those are full of silver dimes, boys,” Sgt. Montgomery boasted, adjusting the officer's cavalry sword hanging uncomfortably at his side. “So don't miss, or it'll come out of your pay voucher!"
The weary soldiers gave a ragged laugh at the old joke, but then saw the sergeant was serious. Holy crud, there must be a hundred dollars worth of dimes in each canister! It would take the whole platoon a month to pay back that colossal a sum.
"Will this do the trick?” Old Ed asked, with a worried tone in his voice.
"With everything else we have in, of course!” the sergeant boasted confidently. “The grounds are full of hunting dogs, the bushes are rigged with spring-loaded bear traps, half the Cassius Clay battalion have silver-edged swords, and a couple of armed frigates are sailing up the Potomac to anchor nearby. It would take a thousand devil dogs to get through these defenses to reach the president!"
"I just hope the monsters don't agree to pay that devil's bargain,” Old Ed said hesitantly, looking nervously through the front doors into the night. “Sacrifice a thousand to kill our Mr. Lincoln."
"Amen to that,” the sergeant whispered so softly that it was almost a prayer.
Just then, a ghostly chuckle seemed to come from the freshly-washed rhododendron bushes. The soldiers drew their pistols and swords. Old Ed rushed forward to close the front doors securely.
"Just the wind,” Old Ed explained. “Nothing more, eh? Just the silly ol’ river wind.” But nobody believed the lie, not even President Washington in his frame on the second floor balcony.
* * * *
Night had fallen along the Georgetown riverfront. Dotting the length of the boardwalk, crackling torches cast pools of flickering light along the wooden planks, revealing shadowy piles of rope, rusty chains, and drying fishing nets.
Turning up his collar against the damp chill, Joshua wrinkled his nose at the clean smell coming off the freshwater Potomac River. Born and raised in Boston, he expected every boardwalk to smell of salt. In his mind, Joshua knew this was a river, but in his heart, it just seemed wrong. Home is not under your hat, it's in your heart.
On the moonlit river, an ore barge loaded with coal drifted lazily along with the current heading for DC, while one of the new steam-powered paddlewheels steadily traveled upstream. Neither paid much attention to the other. Ships that pass in the night. Joshua hoped it wasn't an omen.
Passing a tavern with a placard that announced a buffet, Joshua felt his stomach make its presence known again. Slipping out of the night air, Joshua paid for a tankard of beer, but left the drink undisturbed on the counter, and made a sandwich from the cold meats and breads available for the paying customers. The pickled eggs looked fresh, but Joshua had once spent a week in the privy from a bad tavern egg, and decide the risk was too great. The Marshall couldn't battle evil from inside the crescent moon hotel. Hey you, stop in the name of the law! ... and pass the bog roll, please?
Munching the repast, Joshua walked briskly outside again, and continued along the boardwalk looking for the SeaHawk Boarding House. Dozens of sailing ships were docked at the harbor, their tightly furled masts rising into the sky like winter trees. Somewhere, a buoy clanged out on the Potomac warning about a hidden sandbar. A seagull called from above, and the waves gently slapped against the wooden pylons.
The loading and unloading of cargo done for the day, the boardwalk was sparsely inhabited. A bar here, a tackle shop over there, a tattoo parlor packed with sailors, a couple of brothels, a pawn shop with the three balls gleaming in the moonlight, another seedy tattoo parlor ... ?
Caught short, Joshua froze at the sight of a familiar design in the window and rushed over. Nearly filling the array of window panes spanning the front were colorful pieces of paper glued to the glass. The majority of the sketches were a nautical design of some kind, along with the mandatory wild animals, skeletons, and a plethora of flags. Union, Confederate, British, etc. Something for everybody. Don't be afraid, folks. The pain only lasts a few minutes, but the infection stays for weeks! Step this way!
Racking his memory, Joshua felt a surge of excitement at the sight, his mind comparing the artwork on display, and the bloody designs on the nude dead man. Yes, he was certain, this was it. He had found the skin-artist!
Eagerly trying the door, Joshua found it locked. Closed.
I hope. Pressing his face against the glass window, Joshua squinted past the display of sketches to check the dim interior. The only illumination was from the torches on the boardwalk, the light streaming through the sheets of paper and casting a wild profusion of ghostly images on the tables and chairs inside the little shop.
As his vision became acclimatized, Joshua bitterly cursed. A pair of feet wearing moccasins were sticking out from behind a toppled over table, a twisted arm sticking straight up into the air. The forearm was garish with tattoos, the fingers clawed and twisted, as if trying to block a nightmarish attack. Exactly the same as the cobbler's shop.
The doctor had been here! Pulling his gun, Joshua aimed for the door lock, then reluctantly paused, and holstered the weapon. Turning around, he walked briskly away. There was nothing Joshua could do for the dead artist. But if he hurried, Joshua might be able to reach the boarding house before the killer, and stop him from striking again!
Unless this had happened before the cobbler, he added darkly. The boarding house might already be a pool of goo.
Lengthening his stride, Joshua was almost running along the riverfront, dodging stacks of crates, and the occasional cast-iron anchor. It was beginning to seem farfetched that the Southerners had anything to do with these deaths. Jefferson Davis was a true gentleman, and always proported himself with highest dignity. Joshua shook his head. Nope, the Confederate president would never make a deal with the devil just to beat the North. Not even the bullheaded ‘Stonewall’ Jackson would do anything as dastardly as that. It was positively un-American! But if that was so....
"You there!” a stern voice commanded from behind. “Stop in the name of the law!"
The tone was so commanding that Joshua almost obeyed. Then he turned around fast, pulling both the Starr and LeMat.
"Put those away!” the darkness barked. “And don't be making me tell you twice there, laddy me buck!"
As a village constable stepped out of the moonshadows, Joshua eased his stance, but still didn't holster the guns. The redheaded man was a colossus, even larger than Sgt. Montgomery, with a handlebar moustache that would have made any Royal British Marine proud. However, just because the big Irishman looked human didn't mean a blessed thing. Joshua was slowly learning not to trust the obvious. Seeing is believing. But after what I've seen, I don't know what to believe anymore.
"All right, laddie, put away those hoglegs and start talking!” the constable demanded, brandishing a billy club large enough to dispatch dinosaurs. “Who are ya? What are you doing here? Now be quick about it, or else I'll be giving you a taste of hickory that'll last a week!” The club was quite intimidating enough, but the shiny Colt .44 revolver holstered at his side promised even swifter justice on a more permanent basis.
"At ease, officer. I am a U.S. Marshall,” Joshua replied, tucking away the Starr to pull back his coat and show the tin star. “Now why are you are interfering with a federal investigation?"
"A marshall?” the constable muttered, sounding surprised. The badge looked real enough, that was for sure. “Whose your chief? Give me a name, or by thunder...."
"President Abraham Lincoln,” Joshua whispered, showing his commission papers.
Staring at the signature, the Irishman suddenly tried to grin and failed miserably. “Sorry, sir,” he said in a rush, tucking the billy club behind his back to deny its existence. “Constable Henry Tresham, at your service, sir. I've been following you, sir, ever since I saw you dive out the window at Mingle's shoe shop, sir."
One more ‘sir’ and Joshua thought the man would implode. “At ease, Henry,” he ordered, holstering the LeMat. “I can explain about that...."
"No need, sir,” Tresham said quickly, trying to cover his blunder. “At first I thought you were running away from setting off the...” The constable paused in consternation.
"Bomb,” Joshua supplied.
The two men shared a look, and decided to accept the untruth.
"As you say, sir, the bomb,” Henry said with a wink. “But after seeing you find that dead man at the tattoo parlor, I knew you were hunting the real culprit. Must have missed him by only a few minutes, I'd say, sir."
"How could you possibly know that?” Joshua demanded, offended and intrigued at the same time.
"No flies were buzzing around the body.” The constable leaned closer and lowered his booming voice to a rumble. “Who did it, sir, copperheads? Rebel saboteurs? Was Mingle a traitor?"
Joshua briefly struggled with his conscience. It would be so easy to lie, but the tale would spread quickly and besmirch an honest man's reputation forever. “No, constable,” Joshua replied. “Mr. Mingle was not wanted for anything, as far as I know.” Aside from having a collection of erotica. “He was killed by a traitor, a man disguised as a doctor. I'm trying to find the fellow."
"Dearie-dear, we may be having a bit of a wee problem there,” Tresham muttered uneasily, rubbing the back of his head with the nightstick. “There was a big fellow following you, but when he jinked that I was tagging along, he disappeared. Sorry, sir, guess I mucked up the matter like a hayfoot."
Saved my life from an ambush is more likely. So the hunted was now the hunter. “And he was dressed like a soldier?"
"No, sir, like a doctor. Had a black medical bag and everything."
"Yes, that's the fellow,” Joshua growled, furiously debating in his mind. He weighed options, calculated percentages, and finally decide to act on his gut. Some things just can not be analyzed like a new recipe for cornbread.
Crossing his arms, Joshua gazed at the taller man. “Look here, constable, I could use some help in this matter. But to be honest, the mission is so incredibly dangerous that..."
"Anything for him, sir,” Tresham interrupted, using the billyclub to tilt back his cap. “When do we start?"
"Immediately,” Joshua said, grinning in relief. “Even faster if you happen to know where the SeaHawk Boarding house is located."
"Certainly, sir. This way.” In a rolling gait more fit for a muscle-bound stevedore, Constable Tresham started along the boardwalk heading boldly into the night.
Keeping a short distance from the law officer, Joshua hoped he was doing the right thing. This matter was top security, but it felt mighty good to not be alone anyway. Hunting demons was a two man job.
Nervously, Joshua fingered the blackjack in his pocket. Unless, of course, the big constable is also the mysterious doctor and leading me straight into a trap.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Moving silently through the swirling fog, a pack of monsters stalked the Wildwood Cemetery. The full moon was directly overhead, but a thick river mist defused the illumination into a cold blue glow that gave the landscape an unearthly appearance.
Gravel paths meandered through the autumn grass like gray arteries losing their sense of direction, and tall pine trees sporadically dotted the property, each marking the location of a low hillock. Blockish mausoleums squatted like granite toads on the elevated ground, bloated and obscene. Situated around the hillocks like pagan worshippers were thousands of plain headstones in orderly rows, the misty symmetry broken only by an occasional patch of undisturbed grass, virgin soil patiently waiting for the arrival of the next permanent tenant into the wormy bosom of Mother Earth.
Less than a mile away, the city of Laurel could not be seen because of the intervening forest. The land of the dead had been carefully hidden from the sight of the living. The true joy in life was forgetting that all flesh must die, and that nothing was eternal except the stars.
Checking a list of names in her hand, Lady Colbert paused at a freshly dug mound of dirt to read the name on the headstone, only to growl in annoyance and keep walking.
Perched low in an elm tree, a terrified owl refused to hoot at the sight of a fat mouse scampering across the foggy ground, and let the tasty meal escape rather than reveal its presence to the four predators. High overhead, a flock of bats winging through the cloudy night sky abruptly changed direction and started circling around the graveyard, unwilling to chance catching the attention of the dreadful things marching among the human dead.
"Zoot, mon amis! Here is one!” Gaston Pierpont announced grandly, kneeling by a tombstone. The mound of freshly-turned soil was decorated with flowers, along with a few envelopes of stiff parchment sealed with dark wax.
Goodbye letters to the deceased, McTeague scowled. Bizarre custom. In the Navy we said a short speech, blew a little tune, then threw ya to the fishes and go had a drink. Nice and dignified.
"No, we did him already,” Lady Colbert declared, tucking the paper away. “Keep moving.” To facilitate the work tonight, the queen werewolf was wearing the decidedly masculine clothing of shirt, pants, and boots. Her only concession to femininity was the red silk ribbon holding back her cascade of blonde hair.
"Hold a tick, I gotta go,” Steven Kissel said, fumbling at his fly buttons. Turning away, the male began to noisily relieve himself on the tombstone.
Brushing back his stringy black hair, Gaston chuckled. “Mon du! You mark the territory, eh, mon ami?"
"Qui, qui!” Kissel laughed, jiggling the stream in mirth.
Thoroughly disgusted by the base act, Kelly McTeague turned away from the pair of fools. This was embarrassing! His associates were complete poltroons. And werewolves were supposed to be the elite of the supernatural world? He thought that highly unlikely.
Returned to human form, McTeague was wearing his spare clothing recovered from his backpack. The garments were old and worn, but clean. In contrast, Kissel and Pierpont were dressed in elegant finery stolen from their victims, the rips badly sewn, and there were still bloodstains from the previous owners. Not to mention food stains, spilled beer, and other assorted offal. Seemingly proud of their silken filth, the barrel-chested men walked with the rolling gait of sailors accustomed to a ship being tossed about on a stormy ocean. Both of them sported lewd tattoos, and gold rings dangling from pierced earlobes.
